


A Quiet Evening

by RileyC



Series: Love & Bullets [1]
Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: First Time, M/M, Romance, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:50:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fanfromfla said she always loves it when Al and Vinnie do 'ordinary' things, and specified she'd love a fic where they watch movies and eat pizza. This is that fic, with a few slashy extras thrown in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quiet Evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fanfromfla](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Fanfromfla).



**“1”**

_somewhere in the Adirondacks_

Hard to believe anyone had been around here in years, maybe decades.

Waiting on Pendergast’s signal to follow, Vincent studied the old farmhouse. Set well back from the road, the yard choked with weeds and fallen leaves, ancient – and dilapidated with it -- it looked like the kind of house you’d hear was haunted, that kids would be warned to keep away from because of something terrible that happened there years ago.

Tattered white curtains fluttered in the rain-spattered breeze, the glass in the windows little more than jagged shards now. Even from here, Vincent could hear the scraping of skeletal tree branches against the weathered, peeling walls, and could well imagine how that would sound in the dead of night, out here in the middle of nowhere.

What really creeped him out, though, were the birds lining up along a fence that had seen better days. Most of it was falling down, broken, rusted strands of barb wire trailing along the ground. But there were enough sections intact to offer landing space to an assortment of black birds. Looking at them over there, hunched up against the rain, beady black eyes fixed on him, Vincent jumped when an owl hooted nearby.

A second later, and another _hoo hoo_, and he knew it was just Pendergast, giving him the signal.

Vincent wasted no time in scrambling over to the house, frowning at the feel of the rickety steps, the handrail almost breaking away when he grasped it. There were already holes in the rotted porch, and he stepped gingerly around them, brushing away cobwebs as he stepped through the door.

“Nice little fixer-upper,” he muttered, looking around for Pendergast.

Stepping out of a shadowy doorway, Pendergast said, “I daresay a considerable outlay of money could bring about remarkable improvements.” He gave Vincent a faint smile. “Are you interested?”

“Not a lot. So,” Vincent looked around at the remnants of what must have once been a big, comfortable living room, “this is the Scavenger’s home sweet home?” Dust and cobwebs coated everything, the stuffing was pouring out of a couch that had been left behind, and the smell of mildew was strong enough to make him want to gag. There _were_ tracks in the thick dust covering the floor, human, rodent, and Christ knew what.

Flicking on a flashlight, Pendergast said, “Where he spent his formative years at any rate, according to the records Wren turned up.”

They were on the trail of the Scavenger, the name the media had given a killer who liked to guide the police to his crime scenes via geocaching clues in what amounted to a high tech scavenger hunt. Upon arriving at the scene, the victim, or victims, would be found in a kind of deliberate stage setting, no doubt for extra dramatic effect. There had been five hunts so far, a total of nine victims, and while Vincent was glad of Pendergast’s help he couldn’t quell some anxiety that the Scavenger was putting together his next game even now, while they were up here wasting time.

As if reading his mind, Pendergast said, “If Mr. Glinn’s reading of the Scavenger is correct, we have 24 hours before another hunt begins.”

“_If _ Glinn’s right.”

“Why are you so resistant to the idea, Vincent?” Pendergast asked as they moved into the kitchen.

“Just don’t like us being jerked around.” This kitchen might have been the eeriest thing yet, with plates set out on the table, shriveled objects, furred with mold, that must have been food once upon a time. Two straight-backed chairs were pulled out and another tumbled on its side, as if the family who had lived here had just gotten up in the middle of lunch and disappeared.

“I’m not fond of it, either,” Pendergast opened a door leading down to the basement, shone the flashlight down into its inky black depths, “but we are, at least, a step ahead of our opponent now.”

“We hope,” Vincent said, throwing a glance out the kitchen window, searching for any sign they had company. Only the birds, their numbers doubled – maybe tripled – stared back at him, and he gave an involuntary shudder.

Pendergast noticed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just the birds.”

Pendergast gave him a puzzled look, glanced at the windows, looked back at Vincent. “The birds?”

“Yeah. It’s ominous, the way they sit like that, just staring at you.”

“The birds are ominous?”

Vincent sighed. “You’d get it if you’d ever seen the movie.”

“There’s a movie?” Pendergast said as they proceeded, single file, down the rickety stairs, Pendergast cautiously testing each step.

“Yeah, pretty good one. Hitchcock, Rod Taylor, Tippi Hedren, all these birds suddenly overwhelming this town called Bodega Bay, like it’s the end of the world.”

“What provokes this attack?”

Vincent shrugged. “It’s apocalyptic; you’re not supposed to figure out if it makes sense. You watch it sometime, you’ll get it.”

“I’m sure,” Pendergast murmured, playing the flashlight beam around.  “Watch your step here,” he said, almost at the bottom.

Putting his foot down carefully, Vincent felt the rotted wood give, and warily braced one hand against the damp, slimy wall as he eased on down. Wiping his hand on his pants, he dug out his own flashlight, playing its beam around.

Lumber was piled in one corner, along with a stack of cinder blocks almost totally enveloped in a massive spider web. Cardboard boxes of old newspapers and magazines were rotting over in another corner. The windows down here were up high and intact, but so filthy it was unlikely any light could penetrate even on a bright summer day. Mouse droppings were everywhere.

Vincent trained the flashlight beam on Pendergast, watching him move slowly along one wall, gently tapping, Could there really be a secret, hidden room, like Wren had said? It seemed unlikely to Vincent, too fanciful; he had to remind himself the fantastic had often been the order of the day since he’d first met Aloysius Pendergast.

Minutes dragged by, an uneasy prickling sensation starting up between his shoulder blades; every creak, every scrape of those withered, dead tree branches against the house sending a shiver up his spine.

“Vincent? The flashlight?” Pendergast said, and Vincent realized he’d jerked the light away, glancing back up the stairs.

“Sorry,” he said, moving closer. “This is nuts. If there was something here, somebody would have found it.”

“Not if they didn’t know to look – Ah!” Throwing Vincent a look of triumph, Pendergast’s long, white fingers moved over the bricks, there was a soft _click!_, and with a shuddering creak a section of the wall moved, revealing a narrow passage.

At the cold, damp, mouldering air that gusted out, they both turned away, covering their noses and mouths; Vincent thought he caught a gleam of unease in Pendergast’s silvery eyes for a moment. Good to know he wasn’t the only one creeped out.

After a minute, Pendergast waved a gracious hand to the opening. “You may go first, if you’d like.”

“Oh, no,” Vincent made his own expansive gesture, “you found it, you go ahead.”

Giving him an unreadable look, Pendergast squared his narrow shoulders and, brushing aside some cobwebs, squeezed through the opening. Silence, then, and growing concerned, Vincent was already following, having to turn sideways to accommodate his stockier build, when Pendergast’s voice drifted back to him, “Vincent, you’d better see this.”

Reaching his side, it took him a couple of seconds to process what he was looking at. “What the fuck…”

A trio of figures – no, make that four: the Scavenger had included the family dog – looking like something hauled out of an Egyptian tomb, except for the ragged, modern clothing, were arranged on a couch in a scene out of _Leave It To Beaver_ – if Alfred Hitchcock or Tim Burton had made _Leave It To Beaver._ The father, wearing a cardigan, a pipe cradled in one bony hand, had a newspaper unfolded in his lap, while the mother, a choker of pearls around her neck perused a copy of _Better Homes and Gardens_.  Worst of all was the little girl, aged 8, and named Carrie Ann, according to what Wren had discovered: a pigtailed blonde wig, with bangs, was slightly askew on her skull, and she wore a pink dress with a white, ruffled pinafore, shiny black Mary Janes on her feet, cradling a doll in her arms, its eyes gouged out.

Vincent had to look away from that, had to focus on the rest of the room. There was a rag rug on the floor. A television straight out of the ‘50’s or ‘60’s, complete with a set of rabbit ears. A bookshelf was full of photographs and other mementos – the tall, gangly teenage boy, featured in some of them, looking so completely normal, had to be the Scavenger: Todd Wallace. They always looked so goddamn normal;  just that quiet guy down the block who kept to himself and never gave anyone a reason to suspect what they got up to when all the lights were out and you thought you were safe in your bed.

That was part of what Wren had discovered: newspaper articles from thirty years ago, about the mysterious disappearance of the Wallace family from their farm. The son, Todd, had been away at school, didn’t have any idea what could have happened, had a rock solid alibi for himself, and had cooperated completely with local police. There had been a couple other murders in the area, the disappearance of another little girl; it was concluded the Wallace family had fallen victim to this psycho killer – this outsider, because it couldn’t be anyone in their own Norman Rockwell community – and it became a cold case, a local legend that grew more bizarre with every retelling.

None of those versions bumped up against this, though.

Content to remain on the edges of the scene, Vincent watched Pendergast move carefully through the room, collecting evidence that went into glassine envelopes he produced from his suit. “What do you suppose set him off to do this?”

Examining the photographs, slipping a couple of them into his suit, Pendergast replied with a slight shrug. “Who can say? Perhaps his mother served him scrambled eggs for breakfast when he wanted sunnyside up. It doesn’t take much to set off the trigger once someone is primed to kill.”

Vincent nodded, not sure how this got them any closer to catching the psycho bastard. He hoped this trip hadn’t just been to satisfy Pendergast’s curiosity. “We should let local law enforcement know about this.” Plus, he really wanted to get out of this eerie room.

Pendergast nodded, leading the way back to the basement – freezing in place so abruptly Vincent smacked right into him.

“Wh—“

“Shh,” Pendergast whispered, barely audible, holding up a hand for silence.

Not sure what he was supposed to be listening for, Vincent cocked his head slightly, sorting through the usual sounds, the creaks and scrapes and … Footsteps?

One squeak of floorboards could have been an overactive imagination; when it came again, rapid now, like someone was scurrying around upstairs, he drew his gun and looked at Pendergast. Voice pitched low, he asked, “How do we handle this?”

“That,” Pendergast said slowly, casting a quick, assessing look around the basement, “is an excellent question.”

Vincent hoped he came up with an answer soon because the footsteps were close now, right above them.  He could hear the basement door’s hinges protesting as someone pulled it back wider, heard someone – had to be the Scavenger – shout down, infuriated, “Goddamn motherfuckers!” right before gunfire exploded.

“Shit! He’s got a shotgun!” Vincent shouted as he ducked down, yanking Pendergast with him, a chunk of wall blown out less than a foot away.

“This,” Pendergast said, at his shoulder and returning fire, “is not an advantageous situation.”

“I had actually grasped that,” Vincent grumbled.

“I was thinking out loud.”

“Yeah, well, think out loud with something helpful.” Was there another door around here, something they’d missed, hidden behind all the junk? Vincent spared a look over his shoulder, hoping to spot something  -- and seeing Pendergast standing up. Catching a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye, he launched himself in a flying tackle that knocked Pendergast to the floor a split second before another shotgun blast cut loose right where Pendergast had been standing.

There was barely time enough to register the astonishment in Pendergast’s eyes, let alone get his breath back, before Pendergast caught hold of him, rolling them both along the floor, right ahead of another shotgun explosion. They wound up in a breathless tangle underneath the basement windows – a pane of glass shattering, shards raining down on them as the Scavenger fired again.

“If we rushed the stairs—“ Vincent began, trying to get disentangled.

“Assuming the stairs didn’t collapse first—“

Holding very still then, scarcely breathing, they listened to the Scavenger cursing again, frustrated with the shotgun which, in a sudden burst of temper, was flung down the stairs, bumping and clattering to a stop near the entrance to the secret room. Footsteps, then, running back up the stairs, dust and debris shaken loose and drifting down to cover the two of them. The sound of the basement door being slammed shut, the deadbolt jammed into place, locking them down there.

“Is he leaving?” Vincent said as he and Pendergast stared up at the stairs  “What’s he—“

“Vincent,” Pendergast pressed a hand to his shoulder, “do you smell that?”

He could smell plenty. Mold, mildew, mouse shit— He took a good another sniff, and looked down into Pendergast’s eyes. “Gasoline?” Oh Jesus…

Sounding as calm and collected as if they were strolling through Central Park on a beautiful summer day, Pendergast said, “We have to get out of here.” Only the nervous energy Vincent could feel thrumming through his body betrayed any anxiety.

Finally disentangling from each other and getting to their feet, looking for any better alternatives, they both focused on that splintered window overhead, cold, fresh air pouring through.

“You go ahead,” Vincent said, knowing there was no way in hell he’d be able to fit through. “You can come back around, let me out…”

“We go together,” Pendergast said, firmly, beginning to drag over wooden crates that looked like they might support some weight. “Come on, Vincent, give me a hand here. We don’t have much time.”

Picking up the scent of smoke, seeing the first tendrils of it snaking under the basement door, Vincent pitched it, helping to pile up the crates, supporting Pendergast as he scrambled, catlike, up the precarious pile.

Using the butt of his Les Baer to knock out the rest of the glass, Pendergast crawled through the window, immediately popping halfway back in, looking down at Vincent and extending a long arm toward him. “Come on! Hurry!”

Already starting to choke on the smoke filling the basement, Vincent shot a dubious look at the pile of boxes, the too-narrow opening up there. “I can’t make it.”

“Yes, you can. Damn it, Vincent, take my hand!”

It wouldn’t work, couldn’t work, and Vincent could feel the pile of boxes starting to collapse as he climbed up, stretching to reach that pale hand, stretching – He felt Pendergast catch hold of his wrist, grip vise-like, hauling him along even as the stack of boxes began to give way.

“I’ve got you! Grab hold of the window sill with your other hand.”

Scrabbling around for purchase, Vincent found it, fingers clamping onto the windowsill with all his might, his shoulders and back muscles aching with the strain.

“Just climb now, just climb,” Pendergast urged from above, never letting go. “You can make it.”

Vincent felt a brief elation when he got his head through the window, but then his shoulders, broader than Pendergast’s,  jammed and he had to fight not to panic as he struggled to get free, smoke roiling all around, flames racing down the stairs.

Instructing Vincent to please stop squirming around, Pendergast pried and pushed, loosening the window frame, just enough to drag Vincent on through, both of them collapsing to the weed-choked ground, breathing heavily.

Rolling over, Vincent looked at the house, flames shooting up, engulfing it. “We probably,” he paused to suck in air, “ought to move.”

Nodding wordlessly, Pendergast scrambled to his feet, reached down to haul Vincent up, pulling him along in a half-stagger, half-run as the fire raged. Misjudging a step, though, they fell, rolling down into a gully rimmed by that broken fence, the birds still lined up along it, watching the pair of them.

After a long time of simply breathing and gazing at the storm-tossed sky above, lightning cracking, thunder rumbling, Pendergast finally stirred and, as icy drops of rain began pelting them, said, “Vincent?”

“Yeah?”

“Does it ever cross your mind that we are, perhaps, getting too old for this?”

Vincent looked at him, battered and bedraggled, smudged with dirt and smoke, heaved a deep sigh and started laughing, unable to stop until he was out of breath.

Grumpy as a wet cat, Pendergast said, “That’s not terribly helpful.”

But that only made Vincent laugh some more as the birds, weary of the show, wheeled away into the stormy sky.

=======

**“2”**

_5 days later, New York City_

Wrapping up the Scavenger case had been a headache-inducing flurry of paperwork, jurisdiction squabbles, and media interviews, and nobody’d been able to cross the final ‘t’ or dot that last, conclusive ‘i’ until the medical examiner confirmed that, yes, the remains found in the farmhouse (the most recently dead remains) were those of Todd Wallace. Cause of death: a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Vincent was just glad he and Pendergast had gotten out of there before Wallace had gotten his hands on more firepower. He had one question of his own left, but suspected it would have to go unsatisfied as it looked like Pendergast had, with the Scavenger case wrapped up, done a vanishing act.

Stupid to mind that. He’d gotten too used to Pendergast being around so much lately, seeking out his company, that was all. At first, Pendergast had kept up a pretense of its being professional, wanting to consult with Vincent over some case or other, but that had been discarded pretty quickly. It had been easy to get used to that, comfortable with it. Not so crazy, then, that he’d experience a pang or two of disappointment at realizing the unexpected interlude looked to be over and Pendergast was likely off to Outer Mongolia or Timbuktu.

Anyway it wasn’t like he’d never see Pendergast again. The next time a bizarre case turned up on Vincent’s turf that the FBI agent found ‘interesting,’ Pendergast’s orbit would swing this way again. In the meantime... In the meantime, there was one less psycho killer on the loose, and that ought to be something to celebrate.

Relaxing in his office at the end of this long day, in his shirtsleeves and with just his desk lamp on, Vincent leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders against it and wishing it was one of those massage recliners. Closing his eyes, he listened to the quiet as everyone who could cleared out for the night, eager to get home before the forecasted storm of the century really cut loose. Time for him to call it a day, too – if he could just work up the energy to move.

“You have a laissez-faire quality about you this evening.”

Speak of the devil… “If that means tired to the bone, that’s about right then.” He opened his eyes to see Pendergast just inside his office, composed as always, immaculate in one of his tailored black suits. “What brings you by?” he asked, straightening up with a groan and rubbing his back.

“I thought we might go to dinner. What’s wrong?”

“Ahhh,” Vincent waved it away, “like you said, I’m getting too old for all that action hero stuff,” he said, smile wry.

“I believe my comment was inclusive of us both,” Pendergast said, coming around behind him, “and some lingering aches are only to be expected. Where does it hurt?” he asked, hands resting on Vincent’s shoulders, rubbing lightly.

Vincent sighed, leaning forward just a bit. “Little lower,” he said, and felt Pendergast’s hands slide down, working expertly at sore muscles. “And thanks, but don’t think I’m up to dinner at ‘21’ tonight. Just want to park my butt on the couch.”  He groaned again – not entirely from the pain; Pendergast was good at this.

Long fingers diligently working out knots, Pendergast said, “As you wish. May I at least offer you a lift?”

Sighing again, maybe enjoying this a little too much, Vincent said , “A lift would be good, yeah. You know, you ever decide to quit the FBI, you could have a great future as a masseuse.”

“Thank you.” A note of warm humor ran through Pendergast’s voice. “That has always been my alternative career choice.” Running his hands up Vincent’s back, working at his shoulders, kneading his neck, he asked, “Better?” lips disconcertingly near Vincent’s ear.

“Uh, yeah,” Vincent swallowed, “thanks.”

“My pleasure. Ready to go?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Still, he didn’t immediately get to his feet, but instead gave Pendergast a long, thoughtful look. “I thought you’d blown town.” That came out with a shade more accusation than might be appropriate, but Vincent let it stand. He _had _ felt let down, and a little bit pissed Pendergast wouldn’t even bother to say goodbye.

Pendergast nodded, understanding, not ducking the topic. “I did consider it.”

“And changed your mind?” Vincent asked, shrugging into his overcoat. “Why?”

“Because I find…” here Pendergast hesitated a moment, glancing away, softly clearing his throat, “Because I find no other locale holds any appeal at the moment.”

“Oh.” Hard to know exactly what to make of that. “But New York does?”

Pendergast’s reply was an inscrutable look. “So it would seem. Shall we?” he said, holding the door open.

Outside, Vincent glanced up at the sky. Thick, dark clouds were low in the sky, and the temperature must have dropped twenty degrees since lunch. “Isn’t it supposed to be spring?” he muttered, turning his coat collar up against a sharp, chilly breeze.

“They’re forecasting a nor’easter,” Pendergast said, a hand at the small of his back steering him toward the Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, “with a possibility of snow.”

“Snow?” Vincent rubbed his hands together, blew on them. “That’s nuts.”

“Nature’s ways remain, to us, largely a mystery.”

“That a line from a poem?”

“I do occasionally construct reflective and apt phrases of my own.”

Vincent grinned, climbing into the car, glad Proctor had the heat on.

“There will be a slight change in plans, Proctor,” Pendergast said, sliding in beside Vincent. “We will be going to the lieutenant’s apartment,” he explained and provided the address.

“Very good,” Proctor said, expertly maneuvering the big card out into traffic.

Sitting back, enjoying the smooth ride and the warmth, Vincent studied Pendergast, deciding this was as good a time as any to pose that question that had been on his mind since the farmhouse. “Tell me something?”

Curious, Pendergast nodded. “Of course. What?”

No sense beating around the bush, so, “Did you know Wallace was going to follow us back to his lair?”

Genuinely uncomfortable for an instant, Pendergast countered, “Does it matter?”

“It does, actually.”

Making the admission reluctantly, Pendergast said, “I…thought it a possibility, yes. You must believe,” he quickly added, “that I envisioned a different outcome.”

“So we weren’t supposed to wind up dodging gunfire and trapped in a burning house.” Vincent nodded to himself. “Good to know.”

Pendergast sighed. “How can I apologize?”

“You could trust me.”

Looking injured, Pendergast said, “Vincent, I trust you implicitly.”

Vincent gave him a hard look. “Not always when it counts most. And don’t say it’s a bad habit but difficult to break. Look,” he scooted around to face him, softening his tone, “I’m just saying it makes it hard to watch your back when you keep me out of the loop like that.

Nodding slowly, absorbing that, and looking momentarily taken aback, as if he had braced for something else, something harsher, Pendergast said, “I do see that, Vincent. That level of trust…” He sighed, met Vincent’s eyes with a slight smile. “Shall we say it’s largely unfamiliar territory for me?”

“Having someone watch your back?”

“Knowing I can count on that.”

“Yeah, well,” Vincent reached over to pat his arm, voice a little gruff, “get used to it.”

Catching hold of Vincent’s hand, clasping it firmly, Pendergast said, “I believe I can do that.”

Squeezing Pendergast’s hand in return, Vincent said, “I noticed you didn’t promise to do a better job of keeping me in the loop.”

Smile somewhat broader, Pendergast said, “No, I didn’t, did I?”

No, he hadn’t, but Vincent believed some progress had been made all the same.

As the Rolls prowled on through traffic, the wind picking up and the dark, lowering clouds rumbling with thunder, illuminated by bursts of lightning, Vincent started picturing Pendergast going home alone to that creepy old mansion on Riverside, and didn’t much like the picture. Granted, he was doing some projecting there. While the old house always gave him an eerie feeling, Pendergast seemed to find it homey. Still… “You really want to do something tonight?” he asked.

Expression a bit guarded, Pendergast said, “What did you have in mind?”

Instead of answering directly, Vincent decided to make it a challenge. “Consider this a chance to show how much you trust me.”

Giving that serious consideration, Pendergast nodded after a moment. “I place myself in your hands without reservation.”

“Thanks.” Vincent leaned forward and tapped Proctor on the shoulder. “Pull over up here,” he gestured in the vicinity of a Blockbusters up the street.

Proctor looked back at Pendergast, who nodded, and did as requested, idling the Rolls as Vincent got out, leaning back in a moment to tell Proctor to drive around the block a couple of times. Before anybody could raise an objection, he hurried into the store, head ducked against the first drops of icy rain.

A lot of his fellow New Yorkers, anticipating a long, cooped up weekend, were there ahead of him, but while they were clamoring for the latest, hottest titles, Vincent had something else in mind. Although when push came to shove, after picking out the first obvious title, he felt on shakier ground trying to figure out what Pendergast might like.

_The Usual Suspects _was out, for instance, because Pendergast would probably figure out the big reveal as soon as Chazz Palminteri started interviewing Kevin Spacey. And … no, _Arsenic and Old Lace_, with the hero menaced by an evil brother while his aunts are poisoning half of Brooklyn, might not provide a whole lot of escapism for Pendergast. He put it back and went on browsing, deciding against _Bullet, Die Hard, Chinatown_, but feeling pretty good about what he wound up choosing. When in doubt, go with his instinct; it seldom let him down.

The Rolls had probably circled the block more than a couple of times by the time Vincent left the store and hurried to catch up with it, shivering from the cold and glad to climb back into the big car’s warm interior.

Pendergast eyed the bag of DVDs with frank curiosity and turned the look on Vincent as Proctor steered the car onward to Vincent’s apartment. If he was having second thoughts about this, however, he kept them to himself, and Vincent figured that was worth scoring as a win.

~*~

Pendergast had visited Vincent’s apartment only once before, shortly after Vincent had moved in. Then, piled with cardboard boxes, it hadn’t made much of an impression. As he followed Vincent inside now, it was immediately apparent considerable improvements had been made. That didn’t keep Vincent from apologizing, and asking him to excuse the mess.

Looking around, Pendergast said, “What mess?”

Vincent indicated the living room in general, its slight clutter. “Haven’t exactly dusted or run a vacuum in awhile.”

“I wasn’t intending to conduct a white glove inspection.”

“Well,” Vincent put the bag of DVDs on a large, square coffee table, along with the mail he’d picked up downstairs, “make yourself at home. Kitchen’s there,” he pointed, “bathroom’s down the hall, on your left. I gotta pick up a couple things at the grocery,” he added, already half out the door.

Startled, Pendergast said, “Proctor will have gone by now.”

“I know. It’s just around the corner. Be right back,” Vincent assured him, and like that, he was gone.

Well…

After a moment’s hesitation, Pendergast took off his overcoat and laid it over an armchair that looked a bit too decorative for Vincent’s taste. As he recalled, Vincent had told him the apartment had come furnished.

So then, he looked around the living room, wondering how to occupy himself until Vincent returned. He certainly was not going to snoop. If he happened to go over to look out the windows and track the storm’s development, and that put him in the immediate vicinity of a set of bookcases, he could hardly avoid glancing at the contents, after all.

There was a great deal of crime fiction; he spotted titles like _The Long Goodbye, L.A. Requiem, McNally’s Secret,_ and _One Fearful Yellow Eye;  _authors ranging from Conan Doyle and Poe to Dennis Lehane, Jonathan Kellerman, and Ross MacDonald. A lot of the non-fiction titles were crime related as well, although Sam McFarlane’s best seller of a few years ago, about panspermia, was something of a surprise. The books of their associate, William Smithback, Jr. were there as well, along with Vincent’s own two novels.

A small alcove was dominated by a fairly large photograph of a handsome, decorated police officer in his early fifties, who bore a striking resemblance to Vincent. Even before inspecting the awards and other mementos arrayed there, Pendergast knew this had to Vito D’Agosta, his friend’s father.

There were other photographs around the room: Vincent, just out of the Academy, with a full head of hair and being embraced by a Vito D’Agosta who was positively beaming with pride. Examining that photograph more closely, Pendergast experienced a wistful sort of envy for the easy affection revealed so clearly in the old snapshot.

He put it back beside a photograph of Vincent and his own son, and inspected a stack of CDs left out by the stereo. Springsteen, Rolling Stones, Bon Jovi, Barenaked Ladies… No classical music, but also thankfully no opera. Pendergast definitely approved of that.

Finding himself back at the coffee table, Pendergast checked his watch, decided he would give Vincent another five minutes before he went out to look for him, and settled down on the big, comfortable couch.

Tempting though it was to haul the bag of DVDs over, Pendergast resolved to refrain from that. He also wouldn’t peek into the file folders tucked partway underneath a laptop, though he could hardly avoid seeing some of the contents appeared to be newspaper clippings. He did note two books set out there, both devoted to a rather grisly, though fascinating, series of unsolved murders that had occurred in Manhattan at the height of the Jazz Age. The books were bristling with a rainbow of Post-Its, and Pendergast was craning his neck in an effort to make out the handwritten notes filling a nearby yellow legal pad when Vincent walked in the door.

“Looking for the remote?” Vincent asked, amusement in his voice as he kicked the door shut behind him.

Ignoring the warmth he could feel burning his cheeks, Pendergast said, “Preparing to go in search of you,” as he got back to his feet and went over to relieve Vincent of one the paper shopping bags he was carrying.

“Thanks. Everybody’s stocking up in case the weather forecast’s right, so it took a little longer,” Vincent said, leading the way into a small but well-appointed and immaculate kitchen. “I can put this away.”

Pendergast shook his head. “It’s all right.” He was glad to help with the small domestic chore – and yes, curious to see what Vincent had bought. “Are you cooking tonight?” His bag contained eggs, vine-ripened tomatoes, garlic, onions, flour, and mozzarella.

“Not right now, no,” Vincent said, directing him to put the tomatoes in a bowl on the counter. Putting a six-pack of Bud Lite in the refrigerator, Vincent added some tall, glass bottles, saying, “Rosalinda – she runs the market – said you might like this.”

Pendergast took one of the bottles, looking it over. It was bottled iced tea, a blend of pomegranate and green tea. He nodded, put it in the refrigerator. “Thank you – and Rosalinda.”

Vincent nodded, folding the paper bags and putting them away in a drawer. “There’s bottled water, too. Ice, if you want it. Ice cream in the freezer—“

“What kind?”

Smiling, Vincent said, “Spumoni, actually -- chocolate, pistachio, and almond -- from Gianni’s.”

Pendergast approved. “Excellent.”

“And if you’re wondering what we’re having for dinner,” Vincent looked at him as though daring him to object, “I ordered a pizza. It should be here anytime.”

“I have no objection to pizza.”

“Okay.” Vincent went back to the living room, tossing his coat across Pendergast’s. “How about hot wings?”

“I’ve never had the pleasure, but they would seem relatively innocuous.”

“Pork rinds?”

“Rather less appetizing than, say, roast rat, shall we say?”

Laughing, Vincent shed his suit jacket, loosened his tie and collar, and settled onto the couch with a contented sigh. He nodded his chin at the bag of DVDs. “So, pick a movie.”

Able to satisfy his curiosity at last, Pendergast withdrew the four cases, looking them over. “This,” he held up _The Birds_, “is the one that caused your trauma regarding birds?”

“I wasn’t traumatized, but yeah, that’s the one.”

“_North By Northwest_?”

“Hitchcock again. This one’s about mistaken identities, and Cary Grant suspected of murder. Great scene with him dodging an airplane out in some kind of Kansas cornfield.”

Pendergast nodded, held up _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid._

“Classic. Butch keeps coming up with these brilliant plans, and when they blow up Sundance has to shoot their way out.”

“Do I detect a hidden, and pointed, meaning in that comment?”

“Nope.” Vincent smiled, pointed at the last movie Pendergast held up. “_Raiders of the Lost Ark_. Indiana Jones, Nazis, the Ark of the Covenant – they don’t come any better. You seen any of them?”

“I have not.”

Picking up the remote, Vincent clicked on the television and DVD player. “Pick what sounds good to you.”

Considering the movies, Pendergast selected _The Birds_. “This one; I admit to being curious about these ominous birds of the apocalypse.”

Vincent indicated his approval, and Pendergast got up to insert the disc, settling back down on the couch as Vincent selected PLAY and the movie began. The screen filled with images of birds, no music score as the opening credits rolled, only the cries of birds and the rustle of their wings. Then it opened on a shot of San Francisco, several decades ago, an attractive blonde woman walking along and stopping to notice the birds filling the sky.

“That’s Melanie,” Vincent said, one foot propped on the coffee table. “Played by Tippi Hedren. Watch as she heads for the pet shop – there, that’s Hitchcock just coming out with the two dogs. That was one of his trademarks, always making a cameo appearance early on in his movies.” Noticing Pendergast looking at him, Vincent asked, “Want me to shut up and just let you watch the movie?”

“Not at all; your commentary may be the most entertaining aspect of it all.”

“Nope, you’ll see,” Vincent said with confidence. “Okay, we’re going to see Mitch in a sec, he’s the hero, played by Rod Taylor. He and Tippi are going to ‘meet cute,’” Vincent used air quotes.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what they call it, meet cute: when the love interests run into each other for the first time. Like here, Rod’s going to mistake Tippi for a store clerk and she’s going to play along with it, and they’ll act like they can’t stand each other but that’s code for the audience knowing sparks will fly later.”

Watching the scene play out as described, Pendergast said, “Do the same elements come into play in a novel?”

“Yep. That’s how I learned about it.”

Thinking about Vincent’s novels, Pendergast says, “There’s no romance in your novels, though. The … meet cute … scene occurs between your two detective heroes.”

“Well, yeah, same basic idea. It doesn’t have to be about romance, works for partners too.”

Watching as Tippi drove her car along the Northern California coast, Pendergast said, “I don’t believe we met cute, as it were.”

Laughing softly, Vincent said, “Well, no, bumping into each other over a decapitated body with a monster on the loose wouldn’t normally qualify.”

“Yet it seems to have worked for us.”

Giving him an indefinable look, Vincent said, “Yeah, guess it has, Aloysius.”

Tippi had arrived in Bodega Bay, and after interacting with some of the locals had climbed into a boat that she expertly maneuvered across the bay, with the intent of leaving the love birds she’d brought from San Francisco. As she hurried to depart without being discovered, Vincent said, “Okay, this is where she gets bonked on the head by a seagull, really kicking everything off – and,” as the doorbell rang, “that’ll be our pizza. Be right back.”

Watching the scene in question, Pendergast did wonder why the director might have instructed the actress to look blankly into the distance while the seagull came up on her, but it was a minor quibble. As promised, Vincent returned swiftly, rather enticing aromas wafting from the large cardboard box he set down on the coffee table.

“Lombardi’s – best pizza in town,” Vincent said, turning back the lid and handing Pendergast some paper napkins. “What do you want to drink?”

Pendergast lifted his shoulders slightly. “The iced tea would be agreeable.”

“Okay.” Vanishing into the kitchen, Vincent returned with a can of Bud, a bottle of tea, and a tumbler with ice. Setting them down on the table, he watched with some amusement as Pendergast used some of the napkins as coasters. “So – dig in,” he indicated the pizza.

“No plates?”

“No plates.”

“Very well. Is that in the Neapolitan fashion?” he asked, reaching for a slice.

“Don’t know about that,” Vincent claimed another slice, “but it’s the D’Agosta way.”

Then that would do nicely for him as well, Pendergast decided, taking a bite of the pizza and finding it was, indeed, quite flavorful with its blend of spices and cheese, peppers, onions, mushrooms, and tomato sauce. “It’s very good.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“I’m not just saying that.”

“Okay then.” Kicking his shoes off, Vincent settled back into the couch, feet on the table. He looked at Pendergast. “You can get comfortable if you want.”

“I am comfortable,” Pendergast said, and if Vincent rolled his eyes at that, Pendergast was too busy watching the movie to notice.

~*~

“So?” Vincent said, retrieving the DVD from the player and putting it back in its box. “What’d you think?”

“Leaving aside the lack of a credible explanation for why the birds are attacking, and why no one in a rural community appears to own a shotgun to use as a defense against the birds.” Pendergast smiled as Vincent rolled his eyes again, “it was most entertaining.”

“And you get the ominous bird thing now?”

“I believe I do, actually. That scene outside the school, with them massing on the jungle gym behind Melanie was rather alarming. That whole sequence, with the children fleeing the birds, and their teacher being killed, was disturbing.”

“They’d do it all with CGI today, better special effects, but I don’t think you’d get a better movie.”

Pendergast could not dispute that. “Don’t remakes almost always lack a certain spark?”

“Pretty much. They’re bigger and gaudier, but the magic’s gone. Like with this one, the characters just sitting in a boarded up room, listening to the birds, wouldn’t be big enough. You’d get an amped up scene, more violence and gore, but the actual suspense would be lost.” Stopping and looking a bit embarrassed as Pendergast looked at him, Vincent added, “Not that I really know anything about it.”

“You do a very credible impression of someone who does, then.”

Looking a bit uncertain, Vincent said, “Uh, yeah. So – want to watch another one?”

Getting up to stretch his legs, he went over to look out the window. The storm raging outside made him all the more grateful to be cozily ensconced here with Vincent. “I believe I would,” he said, turning to survey the remains of the pizza on the coffee table, and looking over at Vincent. “Did you say something about ice cream?”

“Yeah. I’ll get it; put on another movie.”

As Vincent disappeared into the kitchen, Pendergast regarded the remaining movies, selecting _Raiders of the Lost Ark_, and putting it on. As Vincent returned with two bowls of the promised spumoni, Pendergast pressed PLAY.

“_Raiders?”  _Vincent said, sitting beside him and handing him one of the bowls and a spoon. “Yeah, you’ll like this.”

Two men were making their way through a jungle in South America, one of them stepping out into full view wore a fedora and looked like he hadn’t shaved in several days. “That’s Indy,” Vincent said. “He’s after a statue to take back to his university’s collection.”

“Where do the Nazis and Ark of the Covenant come in?” Pendergast asked, spooning up the spumoni.

“They’re coming, give it time. Good?” Vincent said, watching him with the ice cream.

Taking another bite of the delectable, frozen concoction, Pendergast nodded. “Very good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Noting Indy’s accouterments, Pendergast understood the fedora, the gun, but, “Why’s he have a whip?”

=======

**“3”**

“I trust your windows are sturdy?”

“Far as I know, yeah,” Vincent said, looking over as another gust of wind rattled the panes, rain battering the glass.

He settled back beside Pendergast, as interested in watching Pendergast’s reactions to the movie as in following Indy’s adventures. If his friend had found a couple of points to nitpick about in _The Birds,_ so far _Raiders_ had gone over without a hitch, and the movie was headed into the final stretch now, with Indy and Marion on board the submarine and Indy starting to feel all the aches and pain he’d been accumulating.

_ “You’re not the man I knew ten years ago.”_

_“It’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage.”_

Vincent looked over at Pendergast, sharing a smile with him at that line, Pendergast saying, “An insightful way of looking at it, actually.”

“I’ve always liked it.”

As the scene played out with Marion bestowing kisses as Indy pointed out the spots that _didn’t_ hurt, Pendergast murmured, “Interesting way of administering to injuries.”

“Kissing it and making it better’s pretty traditional.”

Pendergast gave him a curious look. “Is it effective?”

Vincent shrugged. “Depends on who’s doing the kissing, but yeah, it can be.” Scooting around a bit, he studied his friend, troubled by the way Pendergast looked like he was filing that away as a potentially useful tidbit of information. “Didn’t your mom do that when you fell and skinned your knee?”

Gaze fixed on the television screen, Pendergast’s shoulders lifted in a minute shrug. “Emotional restraint and moderation was considered a highly admirable trait in my family.”

And what that had to do with skinned knees and kisses Vincent could not fathom.

Uncannily perceiving his thoughts, Pendergast glanced at him with a faint smile. “You don’t think much of my family, do you?”

Vincent shrugged with a show of diffidence that didn’t fit well. “Not my place to judge.”

“Regrets are a necessary flavoring of life, Vincent. Without it, how would we learn to recognize those few, precious treasures that come our way?”

Well… “Guess there’s something to that. Doesn’t mean your mom and dad still couldn’t have done with some parenting classes.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” Attention back on the movie, Pendergast asked, “Is he lashing himself to the periscope with his whip?”

“Yep. Told you he’d find lots of uses for it.”

“So it would appear,” Pendergast said, as if filing that away for future consideration as well. “What happens when Belloq opens the Ark?”

“Hold your horses, it’s getting there…”

~*~

“Seems a shame Marion was left out of the other movies,” Pendergast said as Vincent slipped the disc back into its case.

“Yeah, but it’s pretty typical. Don’t see a lot of action franchises where the hero’s got a wife or long-term girlfriend.” Vincent was giving him an interested look. “Guess Marion would be your type, huh?”

He hadn’t really thought of it that way, but, “In as much as I have a type, I suppose.”

“No Southern belles swooning on the veranda and sipping mint juleps?”

“Swooning? No,” Pendergast said firmly. “A spirited companion who speaks their mind is much more desirable. If they can handle firearms with skill that is, of course, an excellent bonus.”

“Yeah,” Vincent was smiling, “I always make that a top priority.”

“Very wise.” Pendergast nodded. “There is, however, a great deal to be said in favor of mint juleps.”

“Yeah? Never had the pleasure.”

“I’ll make one for you sometime.”

“Thanks. How’s it look out there?” Vincent asked as Pendergast went over to the window again.

“There’s no sign of its letting up.” Rain was lashing the glass, forks of lightning striking all over the city. Even with the violence of the storm, given the lateness of the hour he should probably be going.

He didn’t want to. And what an astonishing realization.

This was the best evening he had enjoyed in a very long time. He didn’t want it to be over; he had a sudden fear there would never be another night like this if it ended now.

With no excuse to stay springing to mind, however, he started to turn from the window, saying, “I should--”

“Whoa!”

Catching Vincent’s surprise, Pendergast turned back just as lightning hit a street lamp below, sending up a shower of fiery sparks, their afterglow the only radiance in the night as all the lights went out.

“Well that’s great,” Vincent grumbled.

Pendergast could hear him getting to his feet, cursing as he banged into the coffee table. “Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes adjusting to the darkness enough to make out the general shape of him.

“Yeah, just whacked my leg.” Joining him at the window, Vincent looked out into the night, even the embers from the street lamp gone now, drenched in the rain. “How bad you think it is?”

“There are some lights there,” Pendergast pointed at a distant spot, then another. “I think it’s localized, not a citywide blackout.”

“Yeah, I see them.” Vincent blew out a gusty sigh. “That’s good. I’ve worked enough blackouts to last a lifetime.”

“I suspect atmospheric conditions would tend to discourage looting and pillaging.”

“Maybe.” Vincent sounded doubtful. “I wouldn’t lay money on it.” He sighed again, turning, stumbling into Pendergast, hands braced against Pendergast’s chest to steady himself. “Sorry.”

Catching him, holding him close for a moment, Pendergast murmured, “Quite all right.” He held himself utterly still as Vincent’s hands up to press against his shoulders a moment before Vincent pushed back a step – one hand lingering, blunt fingers almost caressing for an instant. “Ah,” odd, he needed to clear his throat and try again, “ah, do you have candles?”

“Candles?” Vincent repeated the word as if he’d never heard it before. Then, “Candles, yeah, uh, yeah, there should be some around here.”

Three white, votive candles were finally located in the kitchen. No holders of any kind presented themselves, however, and it was decided saucers would do perfectly well. Back in the living room, they set the candles-and-saucers on the big table, Pendergast producing a lighter and applying the flame to the wicks, dripping enough wax onto the saucers to anchor each candle.

“This is cozy,” Vincent said, the candlelight casting a soft glow in the immediate area of the coffee table while leaving the rest of the room in shadow.

_Inviting_ and _romantic_ were the words that immediately sprang to Pendergast’s lips, but he resolutely kept them from being spoken. “Perhaps I should get out of your hair.” He didn’t want to say that, either. It was the practical choice, though, the one that had no potential to irrevocably change things between them.

Vincent gave him a look that questioned his sanity, his words backing it up. “You nuts? No one’s going out in that storm,” he gestured to the windows, the violence of wind and rain raging there.

“If you’re certain I’m not in the way?”

“In the way of what?”

Pendergast lifted his shoulders. “You might have plans.”

“Well, yeah,” a strong current of humor ran through Vincent’s voice, “guess this is about the time I usually go out and hit the clubs, party till dawn.” He shook his head, smile warm with tolerant affection. “My plans were spending the evening with you, watching movies and eating pizza.”

Still feeling on uncertain ground, Pendergast said, “I doubt those plans included a blackout.”

“No, but it’s good to go with the flow.” Easing back down on the couch, Vincent kicked his shoes off again, patting the space beside him. “Come on, it can be like a sleepover.”

He started a bit at that, hoped the darkness concealed it, and carefully sat back down at the other end. “Sleepover?”

“You didn’t do those, either, huh?”

“I’m afraid not. I do have some grasp of the concept.”

“That’s a start.  It’s too bad this place doesn’t have a fireplace, I could make us some s’mores.”

Pendergast gave him a skeptical look. “Those have never sounded appealing.”

“What’s not to like about graham crackers, chocolate, and marshamallow?”

“Combining them all in a melted, squished together mess?”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“And yet I may choose to remain unenlightened on this point.”

Laughing softly, Vincent slouched down comfortably. “How about if you try a s’more, I’ll try a mint julep?”

“I feel fairly certain you would be getting the better end of that deal.” Relaxing his posture marginally, Pendergast found himself toying with the prospect of going so far as to loosen his tie, perhaps taking off his suit coat. “Beyond eating food of debatable quality, what else goes on at these pubescent bacchanals?”

“Checking out the copy of _Playboy _somebody would always bring over--“

“Very educational, I’m sure.”

“Had points to recommend it all right. The highlight was usually the ghost stories, though, guaranteed to keep everybody wide awake all night just in case all the sugar hadn’t done the job.” Vincent gave him an assessing look. “You know any good ghost stories?”

“I know some, yes. I’ve never actually told any.” Thinking about it, Pendergast added, “There is said to be a ghost in the family.”

“Yeah? What’s the story?”

Getting more comfortable, Pendergast thought about it, and began, “Dagobert Pendergast – he would have been a great-great-great uncle – had gone North on business and met, and fell in love with a beautiful young woman named Frederica. They married, and he brought her back to New Orleans, to Maison de la Rochenoir, but it proved a difficult adjustment for her, especially with Dagobert so often away on business.” He paused a moment to check if Vincent could actually be finding this interesting.

To all appearances, he did. “The honeymoon didn’t last long?”

“It seems not. One day she met a man named Randolph Beauchamp, who earned a living as a riverboat gambler. He was an extremely romantic figure, especially to the lovely, and lonely, Frederica. He seduced her, persuaded her to run away with him. At the hour he was supposed to appear to sweep her away, however, it was Dagobert who appeared. He knew all about the scheming lovers, and told her Randolph had run off with the money and jewelry she’d given him.

“Frederica believed Dagobert had killed him, though, and threatened to go to the authorities. Dagobert told her no one would believe her, but to make sure of that he sent her away to our old plantation where she was confined to a room in the attic.

“Sinking into despair and madness, Frederica became convinced Randolph was alive and waiting for her. One dark night, with everything wreathed in fog, she escaped and ran, trying to reach him – and drowned in a pond. It’s said her ghost still wanders the grounds, trying to get back to New Orleans and find her lover.”

Vincent nodded thoughtfully. “Sad story.”

“My mother thought it was terribly romantic.”

Vincent looked as if that didn’t surprise him. “If my nonna had told that one, Randolph would have been the handsome, dark stranger who came to the village, wooing Frederica like she was a princess. Then, after the wedding, when he’d swept her up on his big, black horse and ridden out of the village, Frederica would finally discover her lover was the Devil, but it would be too late by then and he’d carry her away to Hell.”

“A favorite bedtime story?”

“No, she usually saved that one for Halloween.”

Pendergast nodded. “It’s a good night for ghost stories. Or even,” here he glanced at the coffee table, at the laptop and that tantalizing legal pad, “an unsolved series of murders from almost a hundred years ago.”

“You know, if you want to know, all you have to do is ask.”

“I was being subtle.”

“I’ve seen you be subtle; that wasn’t it.”

Raising his eyebrows, Pendergast prompted, “So…?”

“So…” Vincent sat up a little straighter, shrugged. “Seems there’s been a shake-up at the outfit that published my books, and they’re interested in reissuing them with a bigger publicity push.”

“That’s excellent news.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Vincent shrugged again. “Anyway, they wanted to know if I had anything else in the pipeline, because that would make a better package: putting out new editions of the first two books in association with the release of a brand new title.”

Pendergast nodded. “That makes sense. And are you working on something new?”

“You know the case, the Speakeasy Slayer?”

“I’ve studied it. Twelve people brutally slain over a space of nine months in 1924, all of them last seen alive at various speakeasies around the city. Although police at the time had a number of suspects, no arrest was ever made.”

“Biggest cold case on our books. A famous medium of the time, Naomi Stoddard, claimed she had visions that told her the killer was Jack the Ripper, picking up where he’d left off in Whitechapel almost forty years ago. Harry Houdini got in on that part, proving she was a fraud.” Vincent shook his head in amused disbelief. “Nothing changes, does it?”

“Not where sensational crime is concerned.” Pendergast gave him an interested look. “1888 to 1924 is only thirty-six years; assuming the Ripper had been a relatively young man, it’s not beyond all possibility that he could have been at work in America.”

“Yeah, and that was enough to keep that idea alive for a long time.”

“But it isn’t the line you would pursue?”

“Not exactly. More in the way of a copycat. I think Naomi might have been an important key, if Houdini hadn’t fucked it up.”

“You really believe she was receiving messages?”

“Yeah – although not from the great beyond.” A bit self-conscious, Vincent shrugged again. “It’s just something that popped into my head reading up on the case again, a phrase here and there. You know how that is.”

“I do. So then you would be writing another book about the case?”

“Roundabout, yeah. Corelli and Quinn would be working a case that mirrors the Speakeasy Slayings, maybe with flashbacks to 1924. I don’t know,” Vincent shook his head, “it’s probably a dumb idea.”

“On the contrary, it sounds like a very good idea.”

“Yeah? You think it’d be readable?” Vincent asked, smiling again.

“I do. If there’s anything I can do to assist, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Well, I’d like to get my hands on a copy of Naomi’s memoirs. Think Wren could come up with anything?”

“Is it a rare book?”

“Pretty rare, yeah. Privately printed in 1961, two years before she died. Only one hundred copies, and I haven’t been able to turn up anything.”

“I shall ask Wren what he knows. Do you know the title?”

“_Hearing Shadows_.”

 “Hmm. Rather evocative.”

“Classier than _Dead Guys Yapping_ anyway.”

Pendergast didn’t quite smother a laugh.

Relaxing into his corner of the couch, enjoying the easy quiet between them, he knew he could be enormously content with this. That’s where the danger lurked, of course. He didn’t do content, as the common parlance would put it. At least, he hadn’t, not in a long time.

This _was_ agreeable. Quite a bit more than agreeable, actually. Why not let well enough alone and be satisfied with this?

Even as the question passed through his mind, he knew the answer; he could hear it in the tempest raging outside. Nature wasn’t calm and never changing. A pool of water grew stagnant, choked with weeds and dying, if it wasn’t fed with fresh water, washed clean in a storm and revived.

Pendergast found himself yearning for revitalization. He’d thought he might discover it with Viola, she had reminded him so much of Helen for a fleeting moment. But she wasn’t Helen, couldn’t be, and it could only be disastrous to pursue that.

Was it any less mad to believe he could find it with Vincent? Maybe, in all probability – and yet, he recalled another night, the end of another case that had left them both somewhat the worse for wear. Crowded together in a too-small bathroom, at a shabby motel, they had been patching each up; washing out cuts and scrapes, applying stinging iodine. One moment they had been appreciating the absurd humor of the situation, the next instant something had changed, some new aspect took form and hovered in the air between them. So palpable they could have touched it, could have kissed it…

Sgt. Dubrowski, of the State Police, pounding on the door and wanting to know if they were all right had shattered the moment, but Pendergast hadn’t forgotten.

Had Vincent?

He looked at Vincent, meeting his eyes, surprising an ineffable expression there. It was gone in an instant, Vincent dropping his gaze, but Pendergast knew he hadn’t imagined it, and that faint ember of hope and longing flared into sudden life.

~*~

Watching Pendergast gazing at the candle flames, lost in thought, Vincent wondered where Pendergast had wandered off to now. He studied the fine, aristocratic features, the glow of the candles lending some warmth to that pale skin. Whatever Pendergast was thinking about, it must be a good memory, going by the slight smile that curved his lips, the contented, almost dreamy look in his eyes.

Caught by surprise when Pendergast looked directly at him, a powerful sense of longing in those silvery eyes, Vincent looked away so quickly anyone would have thought he had something to hide.

And just what would that be, Vinnie? he asked himself, skirting the edges of an answer.

The silence that, seconds ago, had been comfortable and soothing, was suddenly tense, though, almost electric. He wanted to jump up, move off into the shadows, but that was way too much like running away.

One of them should say something, and since Pendergast just kept sitting there, looking like he’d just found the prize in a Cracker Jacks box, Vincent guessed that ball was in his court.

“You heard from Constance?”

“There was a letter a few weeks ago. She sounds fragile, but I believe she’s in good hands with the monks.”

“Well, that’s understandable, after what she went through.”

“Yes, my brother left an indelible mark on everyone he touched.” Pendergast sighed and gazed at the candles again, pensive now.

“And yet you miss him.”

Pendergast looked back at him, expression faintly rueful. “I miss the … concept of him, shall we say.”

“The concept?”

“That I had a brother once, that there used to be more than me.” He sighed again, focused back on the candle flames. “I was reminded the other day of something that happened at Rochenoir one Christmas, when Diogenes and I were young, before… Well, before.” Frowning now, troubled, Pendergast went on, “I wanted to turn to someone, ask did they remember it too, only to recollect there was no one to share it with, no one left who could remember with me.” He met Vincent’s eyes then, not hiding the quiet sorrow. “It makes one feel a bit melancholy.”

“Yeah, guess it would. You’re not alone, though, you know that, right? Not if you don’t want to be.”

Pendergast nodded. “I do know, and,” he reached over to clasp Vincent’s hand, “that means a very great deal to me.”

Nodding back, Vincent felt the breath hitching in his chest as Pendergast’s thumb rubbed across his knuckles – wincing as that careful touch chafed a shade too firmly against a scrape.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Just banged my hand on a brick wall this morning.”

Examining the nearly microscopic injury by candlelight, Pendergast asked, “Under what  circumstances?”

“A person of interest didn’t take kindly to being brought in for questioning.”

“Ah. And would that also factor into your sore back?”

“Little bit. You know how it goes on the job, collecting a fresh set of bruises while the last batch are still fading away.”

“Indeed.”

Pendergast kept hold of Vincent’s hand, lacing, unlacing their fingers, appearing fascinated by the contrasts of his own ivory skin tone with Vincent’s darker coloring. Lightly stroking his thumb along the injured area, he murmured, “Right here?”

“Uh, yeah.” Vincent licked his lips, felt his breaths coming rapid and shallow. What was--? Oh…_oh_…

Pendergast had raised Vincent’s hand, pressing a feather-soft kiss just near the scrape. “Better?”

Vincent blinked, struggled to find his voice. “Yeah,” geez, he sounded like he’d just run a mile, and he had to swallow before he could go on, “yeah, that’s…good.” Oh man…

“Anywhere else?” Pendergast asked, turning Vincent’s hand palm up, tracing abstract patterns from wrist to fingertips that sent shocking – amazing – sensation through Vincent’s body.

“What?”

“Did you sustain other injuries this morning?”

This morning? Right, this morning… Collecting himself, trying to, Vincent said, “Scratched my neck a little.”

Those long white fingers, so adept at picking locks, producing any number of items from hidden recesses in an endless parade of identical black suits, trembled just a bit as they touched Vincent’s jaw, gently turning Vincent’s head to expose the scratches. Fingertips carefully exploring the scratches, Pendergast asked, “Do they hurt?”

“Not too bad.”

“What about now?” Pendergast whispered, coming in close, lips grazing just beside the scratches.

No -- no, pain wasn’t anywhere on the line up right now. He reached up to touch Pendergast’s head, stroking silky blond hair. “It’s good. It’s great.” A shudder passed through the lean body, and Vincent felt a fervent exhalation of breath against his skin, making him gasp again, fingers tangling in Pendergast’s hair.

It did feel good. It felt incredible.

Movements careful, conscious of the fragility of this perfect, mind-blowing moment, Vincent wound his arms around Pendergast. For a split second, he could feel Pendergast tensing as if about to pull away, and he held his breath, stamping down a flare of disappointment … but then, fraction by minute fraction, Pendergast relaxed, pressing into Vincent. Long arms winding around Vincent, Pendergast let his head rest on a broad shoulder, a sigh of the purest contentment escaping him as if holding Vincent, being held in Vincent’s arms, was a dream come true.

Funny thing, it felt like that for Vincent, too.

When the hell had he fallen in love with his best friend?

He shook his head, a bit dazed and bewildered, but not about to deny it, to try and run away.  As Pendergast shifted, though, sitting back and composing himself, Vincent held his breath, sharply aware that the next few seconds would change everything.

“Aloysius…?”

Pendergast looked at him, as unguarded as Vincent had ever seen him. He could see the same turmoil of feelings in Pendergast’s face, and was heartened by that. It really would have sucked to be in this place by himself.

Drawing confidence from what he read in Vincent’s face, Pendergast nodded, reaching out to touch Vincent’s face, slender fingers trailing down, caressing along his jaw as though absorbing information. “Yes?” he asked, his usually honeyed voice rough, anxious.

Breathing easy now, smiling with it, Vincent caught hold of Pendergast’s hand, kissed the wrist, tasting the excited pulse thrumming away there. “Yes,” he answered, and let himself be pressed down on the couch.

Could it really be this simple, this easy? Maybe not; questions and complications would surely come along. But for now … for now, there was Pendergast’s mouth, kissing him, desperate for him, sparking Vincent’s own desire. Hands cupping Pendergast’s face, Vincent’s thumb slid back and forth across Pendergast’s parted lips – gasping as Pendergast’s tongue darted out to lick the pad, teeth nipping at it. Tugging the blond head closer, Vincent kissed an eyebrow, a sharply prominent cheekbone, the corner of Pendergast’s mouth. Ignoring his friend’s throaty sounds of protest, almost growls, Vincent carried on with the teasing, darting kisses, until his own hunger grew too strong and he kissed Pendergast’s parted lips, groaning as that agile tongue brushed against his own.

Bathed in the candlelight, they wrestled for position on the couch, undoing buttons, anxious for the feel of bare skin, hot and flushed with excitement. Head tilted back against the couch arm, Vincent sighed deeply as Pendergast kissed and licked a leisurely path along his throat, his chest, pushing cloth out of the way as he went. Pendergast’s murmurs of enjoyment, as if feasting on Vincent was the most delightful thing he’d done in ages, should have been bottled and sold as an aphrodisiac – they turned Vincent on that much. Except that would mean sharing this, and he really, really didn’t want to do that.

He did want to get in on this, not even caring if he barely knew what to do and was clumsy and raw with it. Pendergast wasn’t complaining as Vincent pressed him back on the cushions, dragging that starched white collar out of the way to burrow his face into Pendergast’s neck, kissing, nuzzling, grinning with a sense of triumph as he heard Pendergast moan, felt the lean body shift restlessly against him.

“We could,” he had to pause, pull down some more air, “we could go to the bedroom.”

“No,” Pendergast sounded breathless too, anxious, “I’m good here.” He pulled Vincent back down against him, hips thrusting up, leaving Vincent in no doubt that he had Pendergast’s undivided attention.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, a delicious ache building in him, “this is … this is good.” As those long, talented, inquisitive fingers located his zipper and tugged it down, the sound shockingly loud, Vincent couldn’t have made it down the hallway right now if his life depended on it.

“You’re going to kill me,” he panted as Pendergast stroked.

“Oh no,” Pendergast whispered against his ear, licking the ridges, “I have far too many plans in store for that,” he finished, kissing Vincent on the mouth, long and hard and deep.

Not sure if he should be excited or alarmed, Vincent settled for not thinking at all as Pendergast kissed and licked and stroked and drove him methodically out of his mind…

~*~

Sleepily opening an eye, Vincent raised his head to see the power had come back on even though there wasn’t a lot of sign of let up in the storm. With a yawn, and tugging on the blanket they’d pulled over themselves, he let his head drop back down on Pendergast’s shoulder, wondering what the FBI agent would like for breakfast.

 Wondering what happened next.

Last night had knocked him for a loop in a scary and amazing way. Pendergast had been just as overpowered, the experience maybe more intense for him.

Too intense? Vincent wondered, watching Pendergast sleeping beside him.

Try as he might, Vincent couldn’t find any regrets. This – Pendergast warm and relaxed in his arms, legs tangled up with his – this might even be the best part.

Pendergast moved, making a fussy sound, eyelids slowly lifting. Sleepily confused, Pendergast looked at him, comprehension coming slowly. “Vincent?”

“Hey.” Vincent smiled. “Good morning.” He couldn’t resist reaching over to brush a tousled lock of blond hair out of Pendergast’s eyes.

Absorbing their situation, Pendergast’s eyes widened, a faint flush of color rising in his face as memories of last night came flooding back. “Oh.”

_Damn_ \-- “Listen, ah,”—_this was going to hurt. _“you don’t have to apologize.”

Nodding, watching him closely, Pendergast said, “I hadn’t actually planned to.”

He hadn’t? “You didn’t?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Vincent settled back down, thinking that over. “So, you, umm, you don’t regret what happened?”

Quick: “Do you?”

Just as quick: “No.”

“Well then?”

Shifting around to face him, Vincent said, “So, then, you might want it to happen again?”

Smile enigmatic, Pendergast assured him, “I confess to rather counting on it, actually,” and if that wasn’t clear enough, the hand sliding down Vincent’s naked back and pulling him close clarified the point admirably.

~*~

“Thank you, Proctor, that will do nicely,” Pendergast said, closing his phone and setting it over on the coffee table.

He stretched out comfortably on Vincent’s couch – all tidied up after last night’s, and this morning’s, most satisfactory activities -- wondering if he had imagined a certain note of knowing smugness in Proctor’s tone as he’d asked him to bring over some clean clothes.

Well, be that as it may, this evening would be soon enough for Proctor to carry out that task. Just at the moment, Pendergast found he was exceptionally comfortable in a pair of borrowed sweats and an NYPD t-shirt, even if they did hang loosely on his frame.

The only thing marring his contentment, in fact, was Vincent’s absence. Fortunately, it was only necessary to follow the tantalizing, spicy aromas drifting from the kitchen to locate Vincent. Barefoot, Pendergast pursued that trail, stepping up behind Vincent, busy cutting mozzarella into cubes. Arms slipping around Vincent’s waist, he brushed his lips against the nape of Vincent’s neck, dark hair still damp and curling from their shower.

“What are you making?”

“Gnocchi.” Vincent nodded his chin at the potatoes boiling away on the stove. “You know that means ‘priest stranglers?’ Makes you wonder, huh?”

“Indeed.” Pendergast kissed the nape of his neck. “May I help?”

Giving him an uncertain look, Vincent asked, “You any good peeling potatoes?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Debating it, Vincent finally nodded and handed him a knife. “You want to do it while they’re still warm, so get cracking.”

Pendergast got cracking, at getting used to this, and of how very easy that would be.

~the end~

_“As I get older, Vincent, I have come to prefer a quiet evening at home to a bracing exchange of gunfire in the dark.” Brimstone, by Douglas Preston &amp; Lincoln Child_

 


End file.
